The Psychologist
She wore a simple floral dress; her straight auburn hair was pulled back into a casual ponytail and her smile was gentle. She exuded a humble and caring presence. Firmness would enter our conversation soon enough, but this first visit was mostly information gathering.
In a similar fashion to my doctor’s visits, I succinctly tried to summarise my life.
I decided to skip my childhood, my conservative religious upbringing and the fact that I was sent away from home at the tender age of 13. Instead I gave her a brief “report” of the last 10 years, my diagnosis and my medical plan. Dr. M had “strongly recommended” (almost demanded) that I see a Psychologist for my chronic pain and infertility. I had previously considered seeing one but had never followed through, so I was very open to the idea.
I assumed the main topic of conversation was to be CHRONIC PAIN, so I skipped over what I considered “irrelevant details” and verbally vomited an unemotional medical history at her.
She wasn’t too impressed, but I could see this did not phase her. This type of behaviour is most likely a daily occurrence for her.
She encouraged me to continue.
The next phase of my emotion-less “reporting” consisted of bragging. That’s right, I said BRAGGING.
“Anyway, I know my life isn’t really that bad,” I stated with a swelling ego, “I know a lot of people that have it so much worse than me. I actually have nothing to complain about” I finished with a satisfied smirk.
The Psychologist furrowed her eyebrows and blinked in disbelief a couple times, but she allowed me to keep rambling.
At that point I admitted that I had grown up in South America, where people don’t have access to good healthcare. And I’ve worked as a nurse in the United States, where healthcare is unaffordable for a big percentage of the population.
“I am so blessed to live in Australia” I stated.
She didn’t disagree.
I regaled a recent story my mother had told me about women in a hospital in Bolivia. The post-natal “ward” (unit) consisted of ONE room for all the women, with ONE toilet. The bathroom door was broken and hanging off the hinges. There was blood all over the toilet seat. My mother was visiting one of the missionary girls who had just delivered her baby. No one came in to check her bleeding. My mother performed a “fundal rub” to stimulate her uterus to contract and stop the bleeding. No one came it to check her vital signs. No one came in overnight to give pain relief to the women who had just had a c-section. In the morning a male nurse came in with a clipboard. My mother watched in horror as he made-up (literally invented) the vital signs for the women (blood pressure, pulse, temp etc) and walked out. This is only ONE of many stories.
“I’ve got perspective,” I bragged again.
I then regaled stories from my job in the Pediatric ICU. Parents experiencing unfathomable trauma and loss. “I have nothing to complain about,” I said again, as if trying to convince myself.
My swollen ego continued to cloud my insight. I kept going.
I told stories from my job as a Midwife; of women going through years and years of IVF; women experiencing recurrent miscarriages and late-trimester losses; women losing twins; women who have had a stillborn. I tear up just writing this. The sorrow and loss that I have seen at work is beyond my explanation, as I am just an empathetic observer. Only those experiencing it themselves could truly explain the depth of the pain.
At this point I paused and metaphorically patted myself on the back for being so “positive” about my situation and “resilient”.
The Psychologist looked horrified.
I was confused. Wasn’t she impressed with how well I’ve handled my situation?
“I’m worried that you are not dealing with your emotions,” she stated bluntly.
My jaw dropped. My cloud of ego immediately dissipated into thin air. I squinted my eyes against the bright clarity of my situation.
“What?” I stuttered.
She repeated herself. I felt like I’d been slapped in the face. I felt the painful thud as I fell off my egotistical pedestal.
“Perspective is NOT the typical therapy we use when dealing with traumatic situations. It may help if you’re in a really bad downward spiral of depression and you can’t pull yourself out of it, but typically it is NOT useful and I do NOT recommend that you use perspective for coping.” This time there is firmness in her voice and I didn’t dare argue.
I sat shocked and silent.
“You are NOT dealing with your emotions,” she observed, “in fact, you are avoiding your feelings and not acknowledging that what you are going through is very difficult.”
I felt tears welling up and I reached for the Kleenex box.
*Totally cliché, I know*
I felt my “positivity”, my “perspective” and my coping skills slipping away.
This appointment was only the beginning of the release of an explosion of tears and emotions that had been dammed behind a wall of stoic upbringing, religious martyrdom and apparently “detrimental” perspective.
